


There's No Place Like

by myheartinhiding



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, M/M, just a mention of Mycroft and Greg and Anthea, misuse of yoga terminology, returns to epic fluffiness, started out fluffy and then heated up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myheartinhiding/pseuds/myheartinhiding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff and Arthur Shappey return to Martin's attic flat in Fitton after the flight to Locarno.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Place Like

“Hmmmm…”

“Hmmmm to you, too.  Penny?”

“Penny?  D’you mean that yoga lady who goes all twisty?  I didn’t know you went in for yoga, Skip.  But if you do, I really think that Downton Abbey Facing Dog pose is something we could try—only not in your bed, really, 'cause it’s a bit narrow, isn’t it, but maybe here on the floor—”

“Oh.  Ah, I meant, as in ‘a penny for your thoughts.’”

“Oh, _that_ penny!”

“You are—you are ridiculous, Arthur.  You know that.”

“Yeah.  You love that about me, though.  I know you do.  Budge up a bit, would you?”

“Oh, of course.  Sorry.”

“No worries.  Yes, there.  Let me get my arm back around you—oh, perfect.  Lean back into me.  Mmmmmm.  Still want to hear it?  My thought, I mean?”

“Yes, please, as long as it doesn’t involve yoga or my exceedingly hard and possibly quite dusty wooden floor.”

“Well, it could be about other things that are hard, Skip, or things that were hard recently, or things that look rather like they’re thinking about being hard again really soon…”

“Arthur—do stop that!  I’m not twenty, you know—oh.  Oh.  Ah.  Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping.  Not now; not with you still all flushed and sticky.  I wish you could see yourself, Skip.  See yourself the way I do, I mean, right now, with those little lines around your eyes smoothed away and your hair mussed.  Your lips are so pink—wait, I really need to kiss you—oh, and again—Skip, your beautiful mouth—mmmm—the way you shiver when I run my tongue down your throat—oh, yes, just like that—are your nipples hard?”

“Oh—Arthur—please—”

“They are—so hard—you love it when I pinch them, don’t you, like that?  Shall I use my teeth?  Yes…”

“Arthur!”

“Shush, love, don’t move—let me use my mouth on you, oh let me—yes—and again—and again.  Shall I stroke your cock now?  It’s hard again, Skip, so hard, and red, and already leaking.”

“God, the things you say…”

“Mmmm, yes.  You love it, don’t you?  Love it when I tell you I’m going to suckle the tips of your stiff nipples 'til you’re gasping…love it when I talk about teasing your wet slit with the tip of my tongue and licking 'round and 'round the crown…love it when I tell you I’m going to finger you and suck you, but I won’t let you come, oh, no…”

“Arthur—please oh please—”

“You’re still so open, Skip, so open and hot that I can slide two fingers right in, deep inside you.  There’s the spot—right there—”

“Urnghhh…”

“Tell me, love.  Look at me and tell me.  You know I’ll do it.  Anything.  Anything you want, Skip.”

“Oh…”

“Martin.  Dearest.  Tell me.”

“Arthur—please—yes, yes to everything you said—oh—please, please s-suck me, yes, harder, and, and, open me with your fingers—oh, God—ah—ah—ah—more, please, another finger—God, yes, and then—and then—you, your cock, deep—deeper—ah!—oh, Arthur—oh please—there there there there there—I need to come—please, please let me come—”

“I’m fucking you, Martin, I’m fucking you so hard.  Keep your eyes open.  Look up at me, yes, just like that.  Faster—do you—oh—so so good—do you want it faster?”

“Arthur—love—oh, love, faster, faster, please—”

“Beg for it.  Beg for me to fuck you hard and fast and deep, oh darling, I want to fuck you ‘til you scream my name, scream for me when you come—”

“Faster—harder—please, please Arthur—fuck me fuck me fuck me—”

“Yes—Martin, you’re going to come.  You’re going to come without a hand on you, you’re going to come and spurt and scream—oh, love, oh—”

“Ohhhh—ohhhh—please please—Arthur!  Arthur!  Ah…ah…ah…ah…ah…”

“Nghhhn—Martin—oh, God, yes, dearest, dearest—”

“Oh.  Oh.  Mmmmmmmmm.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Yes.  Let your legs slide down—I’ve got you—like that, yes.  C’mon—over here.  Closer, love, closer.  Yes.  Perfect.”

“Oh.  Arthur.”

“Are you cold, love?”

“Little bit.”

“Let’s pull your duvet up.  Here we are.  Nice and snug.”

“Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

“I…I can never think of the right things to say to you.  You are just…so…”

“That’s okay, love.  I can see it, you know, when you look at me, 'specially like right now.  Even when the room is dark—like it was at the hotel in Locarno, remember?  No moon and all the stars there ever, ever were over the lake.”

“What do you see, Arthur?  When—when I look at you?”

“Well, it’s—it’s like somebody has turned the lights up, all around you, like you glow, like there’s something so warm inside you, so warm, and it sees me—really, really sees me like nobody else does, not even Mum.”

“I…I do see you, Arthur.  Dearest.”

“You know, I know that I say ‘brilliant!’ all the time.  It’s because most things are brilliant, like the bath that’s the right temperature and cracking your knuckles and really not wanting to get up and then you don’t have to—like now!—and you and Douglas and Mum and Herc—well, and that is all brilliant.  But, d’you remember the time I told you and Douglas about love, how true love really wouldn’t make me happy because I’d be all worried in the moonlight that the blissful happiness would be, well, that it would be over?”

“Yes, Arthur.  I do remember that—wait!  You’re not going to crack your knuckles again, are you, because that’s the sort of thing nobody ever wants to see.  Or hear.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you.  But what I meant, Martin, was that I was wrong.  Wrong about love, you see?”

“Um…no?”

“Gosh, no, no, don’t turn away—come back.  Yes, right here, to the warm, Martin-shaped part of the bed next to me here in the warm, Arthur-shaped part.”

“In what—in what way were you wrong?”

“Well, you see, love, I was thinking about it while we were staying in Locarno, in that nice hotel where Mycroft and Greg and Anthea said that we should stay, too.  You remember the first night, the first night without any moon at all, just the stars over the water?”

“Yes, I do, and the way we wrapped ourselves in the duvet on the balcony so that we could, as you put it, Arthur, ‘star-bathe our faces and our fingers and our toes.’”

“Yeah—that was brilliant, wasn’t it?  No need for suncream in starlight, even though stars are suns—just really, really far away.”

“It was brilliant.”

“It was!  Anyway, I was thinking about what I’d said before—about all that blissful happiness in the moonlight—and I realized that I was blissfully happy with you whether there was a moon or not.  And—what’s even better—is that I haven’t worried, even once, about the happiness with you being finished, being over anytime soon, and just being left with tossing apples, which is still pretty spectacular.  D’you know what I mean, Skip?”

“I…I do.  But I worry—I worry, Arthur, that—well, I guess I’m not overly used to most things going my way for very long.”

“No need to worry, Skip—Martin. Dearest, please don’t worry.  I’m going to be with you for a long, long time, and I will love you, really love you, without stopping for even one second, not even when I’m sleeping or wondering where you might have hidden my didgeridoo.  The only way for you to be sure—really, really sure, Martin, my love—will be to stay with me for a long, long time, too, so that you see.  So that you see, during all the moons and suns and days and weeks and years to come—that you see me.  Because I’ll still be here.”

“Arthur…”

“Martin.”

“Mmmmmmm.  To go back to our discussion about that penny—and no yoga, please, I beg you sincerely—what were you thinking about, Arthur?”

“Oh, I was thinking that nobody who owns _seven_ didgeridoos ever has to worry when he can’t find just  _one_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur Shappey isn't mine; more's the pity. Neither is Martin Crieff, which is also a damned shame. Cabin Pressure arose from the superior mind of John Finnemore--before you ask, he's not mine, either, nor is the BBC. No harm, no foul, no monetary profit of any kind, and no otters (at least not in this one).


End file.
